


Crack AUs

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of slightly unconventional AUs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Egyptologists

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following list, offering up AUs that WEREN'T Coffee Shop AUs:
> 
>  ~~Egyptologists AUs~~  
>  ~~Rockstar and groupie AUs~~  
>  ~~Lifeguard AUs~~  
>  ~~Modern royalty AUs~~  
>  Accidentally read his/her diary AUs  
> Book club AUs  
> Met at comic con AUs  
> 1920s con artists AUs  
> Running from the police AUs  
> Librarian AUs  
> Rebels against the government AUs  
> Internet friends AUs  
> Time traveling AUs  
> Struggling artists AUs

Jon is not sure why he should be so surprised to see Lady Sansa at his door. It is technically _her_ door after all- everything here at WInterfell is hers now- and he can’t imagine who else would come knocking this late. And yet, as he stares at her in her evening gown, jet earrings sparkling in her ears, he finds himself blinking rather like an owl.

“May I come in?” she asks, and after a pause just long enough to be awkward, Jon steps back, allowing her entrance with a mumbled, “I apologize for my appearance, my lady.”

He’s in his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unfastened, and he realizes his feet are bare, but it isn’t like he’d expected her to come tromping through the gardens all the way to the tiny gamekeeper’s cottage he’d claimed as his own.

“It’s no matter,” she says, waving one hand and stepping inside. “I’m the one imposing on you after all.”

Her gown is black and more conservative that the fashion these days, speaking to the deep mourning she is still in. It seems she’s been in black for years, first for her father, then her mother, and now for her eldest brother. The color suits her though, makes her skin luminous and her hair seems even redder in the dim light of the lanterns Jon has throughout the cabin.  There is gaslight in the big house of course, but out here, such a thing feels like a luxury.

“Look at all of this,” Lady Sansa says, moving towards his desk, and Jon fights the childish urge to run over and slam his notebook closed. But his research is hers now as well, he reminds himself. Jon has never been quite sure of his place in the Stark family. Lord Stark took him in when he was just a child, and he and Robb Stark were thick as thieves, but he is, at the end of the day, nothing more than Lord Stark’s apprentice, a servant to this family, and she is now its head. So he makes himself stand still, hands clasped behind his back as she runs her fingers over the hieroglyphs he was transcribing, not saying a word even as she picks up the funereal urn Lord Stark had let him keep after their last trip to Egypt.

The trip that had cost Lord Stark his life.

Jon shoves that thought away when Lady Sansa looks at him with bright blue eyes. “You continue my father’s work,” she observes, and had Jon not unbuttoned his collar hours ago, he would tug at it.

“It...seemed the right thing to do.” Robb had never shared his father’s interest in Egypt, but he’d supported Jon’s research all the same. He’s been gone nearly half a year now, and Jon had spent all that time waiting to be tossed out on his ear, sure that Lady Sansa would no longer want him here at her house, in her life. And with her soon to be married….

She sets the urn back on the desk with a reverence that surprises him, pulling the loose shawl draped in the crook of her elbows tighter around her.

“Do you mean to return?” she asks. “To Egypt.”

The question so flummoxes Jon that he wrinkles his brow, watching her carefully. Jon had grown up at Winterfell, was close to all of the Stark children save her. And as such, he cannot read her at all. There’s something intense in her gaze that Jon cannot sort out, and in the end, he shakes his head and replies, “That no longer seemed feasible. My lady.”

Sansa draws herself up, and Jon realizes she’s near his own height. A formidable woman, as her mother was before her. “Did you think I would no longer sponsor you?” she asks, and Jon once again finds himself tongue-tied and at sea. But Sansa is warming to her topic, cheeks turning a fetching shade of pink.

“This was my father’s life work, you know. And even my brother, who didn’t give a fig for it, continued his support.”

Her gaze narrows. “Or do you not care to have a woman as a patron?”  
Without thinking, Jon steps forward. “A man, a woman, a bloody flying pig could be my patron for all I care, so long as I get to go back.”

The second the words leave his lips, Jon wishes to call them back. He has always been impulsive, a trait he’s tried again and again to curb.

“It’s your mother in you,” Lord Stark had always said with a sad smile, but Jon had never known his mother, and the Starks his only family.

A family he will probably lose now that he’s spoken to Lady Sansa this way, damn his hide.

But Lady Sansa only smiles, the expression transforming the cameo perfection of her face into something livelier. Something close to...passionate.

Jon swallows hard.

“Excellent,” she says, moving back the tiniest bit. “Then I shall make the arrangements.”

She turns, the beads on her gown clicking together, silk skirts whispering against the floor, and Jon once again finds himself flummoxed. He’d been expecting for her to finally evict him from her lands, not for her to suddenly offer to make his dreams come true.

“For Cairo,” she adds, glancing over her shoulder. “Unless you’d rather wait for a flying pig?”

“No,” Jon says, rubbing one hand over his beard and staring at her, wondering just when Lady Sansa Stark, the most proper and correct of Lord and Lady Stark’s five children became so...surprising.

“Good,” she says with another smile, and then she is gone, the lingering scent of her perfume the only hint that she was ever there at all.

 

 

 


	2. Rockstar/Groupie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I soooort of cheated with this one and went more Rock Star/Music Journalist.

The music woke Jon first. It was just a few chords, playing quietly in the early gray light of dawn. Then the music would stop, followed by a soft scratching sound his sleep fuzzed brain couldn’t quite decipher, then the chords again, soft and sweet.

It took Jon a moment to remember where he was, and when he did, a slow, undoubtedly dopey smile spread across his face. Rolling onto his back, Jon fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand with one hand while the other gathered a few pillows behind his head.

Sansa was just a blur of white and red and pink on the couch opposite the bed, and when he finally found his glasses, she came into sharper focus, making something in his chest go tight.

She sat on the sofa, one long leg tucked up underneath her, wearing nothing but the white shirt he’d had on the night before, her long hair a spill of auburn over one shoulder. Her rose-colored guitar perched in her lap, a pencil clenched between her teeth as she strummed, she was maybe the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and Jon happily settled into the sheets to watch her.

Her long, nimble fingers moved along the neck of the guitar with a lot more skill than his had, and then she stopped again, plucking the pencil from her mouth to scribble something on the pad of paper in front of her.

Finally, he folded an arm behind his head and asked, “Writing about last night?”

Without looking up from the paper, Sansa smiled. “Maybe.”

The thought should terrify him. One thing sleeping with his subject- a stupid, rookie mistake he wasn’t sure he’d be able to regret- totally something else to hear about it on Top 40.

But Jon only smiled and said, “Well, someone should. Last night needs to go in the Annals of Sexual History.”

She snorted at that, shaking her head. “Guess I’m lucky lots of things rhyme with ‘Jon,’ then.”

He laughed, and she kept playing, pausing occasionally to write something down. He remembered what Mya had said about how Sansa wrote, that she’d disappear into a hotel room or the back of the bus, coming out sometimes hours later, sometimes days, with lyrics for Mya to set to music. But here she was, sitting on a couch in front of him, wearing his shirt and writing a song while he watched.

Somehow, that felt bigger- more important- than what had happened last night.

As if she could sense his thoughts, Sansa shook her head again, cheeks coloring slightly. “This was easier when you were asleep,” she muttered around the pencil.

Glancing over at the clock, Jon saw that it was barely six, and he was fairly sure they’d been up until at least three. No wonder he still felt so wiped out. “How long have you been working?” he asked, and for the first time since he’d woken up, Sansa looked at him.

He’d seen her face thousands of times. On the television at Sam’s, in magazines, on billboards. There was currently a folder on his computer that was nothing but pictures of her, research for the article. But all those years of looking at her didn’t lessen the impact of seeing her now, here, like this.

With him.

Christ, he was so screwed.

“Awhile,” was all she said, and then, face even redder, she turned back to the guitar. She’d only played a few notes before she said, “It’s funny, how boys always fall asleep after sex, but girls are like…,” she lifted her hands from the strings, fingers opening and closing a few times. “Energized. Awake.”

“Well, I prefer to be called a ‘man,’ but yeah, I guess the point stands,” Jon joked, and Sansa tossed the pencil at him, her lovely face screwed up in an exaggerated scowl.

Dodging the pencil, Jon sat up higher in the bed, grinning. “I take that to mean you haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

“Couldn’t,” she said, absentmindedly strumming. “Too busy composing ‘Jon, Jon, He’s Got It Goin’ On.’”

His laugh probably could’ve woken Margaery and Mya in the next room, but Jon didn’t care and from the way Sansa burst into giggles, he didn’t think she cared much, either. Then she shifted on the sofa, Jon’s shirt riding higher up her thighs, and laughing was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

“Get back over here,” he all but growled.

Sansa chewed her lower lip, eyes roaming over him in a way that made Jon feel like there couldn’t possibly be any blood left in his brain, but rather than get back in the bed like he dearly hoped, she lowered her head and said, “Just let me work out the bridge first.”

Jon figured his vanity should feel a little stung that she’d rather make music than come to bed with him, but if anything, it just turned him on more.

Kicking off the covers, he reached for his boxers, still laying on the floor, and slipped them on before going to join her on the sofa. Jon knew better than to look at her notepad- he’d been around enough musicians to know that certain things were off limits-, but she scooped it up anyway, tossing it to the opposite side of the sofa. “I don’t like anyone to see before it’s done,” she mumbled, and while Jon really enjoyed watching her play, he didn’t think he could go one more second without kissing her.

Since her face was still turned down, facing her guitar, he settled for sweeping her long hair from her neck and pressing his lips just below her earlobe. “This shirt looks better on you than it does me,” he muttered against her skin, and she gave a low chuckle, fingers still dancing over the strings.

“Thinking of giving me material for another song?” she asked, and Jon grinned.

“If I have my way, sweetheart, you’ll have a whole album.”


	3. Lifeguard AU

“I brought you a soda.”

Frowning, Brienne looks down at Margaery, standing at the base of Brienne’s lifeguard chair, a sweating can of Coke in one hand. She’s smiling as she wiggles the soda at Brienne, and Brienne fights the urge to squirm in her chair.

“Thanks,” she says gruffly, reaching down to pluck the can from Margaery’s fingers, and trying hard not to notice the way Margaery’s bright red swimsuit dips lower in the front than it should. The swimsuits they’ve been given are uniforms, really, utilitarian in every way, but Margaery manages to make hers look stylish and...sinful.

Nearly as sinful as the smirk she throws Brienne now, asking, “Is it what you wanted?”

Margaery’s eyes are hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses, but Brienne still feels as though her gaze is lodging somewhere right in the middle of Brienne’s chest. This is a new feeling, being disconcerted by Margaery Tyrell. She’s used to not liking her- she’s Renly’s girlfriend, after all, and Brienne has nursed a crush on him since...God, second grade at least. Sometimes, when she looks at Margaery in her bright red bathing suit, her soft brown hair spilling over her shoulders, Brienne tells herself that it’s jealousy making something in her stomach clench, envy making her cheeks hot and her skin seem itchy.  What else could it be?

She tells herself the same thing now as she tries not to fidget. “Yes,” she replies. “I...thanks.”

Margaery’s grin widens, teeth white in the sunlight. “You already said thank you.”

Brienne shakes her head, knowing that she must be making that expression her father always warns her about, the one that makes her look “like a goddamn bull, honestly, Brienne.”

But Margaery just keeps grinning at her, making Brienne feel as though her skin suddenly shrunk a size or two. And then she’s sauntering back to her own chair where, Brienne knows, she’ll sit for the rest of the afternoon, fanning herself with a magazine, pulling her hair up off her neck, laying back and letting her knees fall open as if she’s inviting the warmth of the sun to-

Brienne jerks her gaze back out to the ocean in front of her, taking deep breaths through her nose and almost hoping that someone starts drowning so that she has an excuse to plunge into the cold saltwater.

But she can’t help but glance over once more, watching as Margaery lazily twirls her whistle around one fingers. It swings one way, wrapping itself up to Margaery’s knuckle, the back the other way, and Brienne has no idea why such a simple action should make her mouth go dry, but it does. And when she looks back up to see Margaery watching her...well, other parts of her suddenly feel the _opposite_ of dry, and seriously, could _someone_  just get into mortal peril already?

But no one comes close to drowning that day, so Brienne spends her entire shift in a state of confused misery, sitting high in her chair and wondering why she can’t stop glancing over at Margaery Tyrell.

Margaery glances back more often than not, and when their shift ends at sunset, she wanders back over to Brienne’s chair, a white robe thrown carelessly over her swimsuit, her hair caught up in a messy bun. “Wanna grab a beer with us?” she asks, and Brienne wonders who the “us” is. Margaery always has a crowd of girls around her, but there’s no one there now. Still, she finds herself nodding and saying, “Sure,” grabbing her own oversize gray t-shirt to thrown on over her bathing suit.

How she comes to find herself a couple of hours later, lying on a blanket. her hands dug into the cool sand, her legs spread wide so that Margaery Tyrell can eat her out, Brienne can’t quite say, but she can’t quite regret it either.

“Oh!” she hears herself gasp, one sandy hand coming up to rest on Margaery’s hair. “Oh, _god_ , oh, I...I….,”

“You what?” Margaery asks lazily, lifting her head and dragging the back of her hand across her mouth. She’s still in that red swimsuit, and Brienne is still confused and aching and  wanting.  

Still, she manages to answer, whispering, “I’ve never done this with a girl before.”

Margaery’s answering smile is penny-bright even in the moonlight, and she rubs her hand against Brienne’s thigh. Brienne is still wearing her swimsuit, too, Margaery having simply pushed the necessary material out of the way, but she’s surprised as just how naked Margaery’s gaze makes her feel.

“Have you ever done this with a _boy?_ ” Margaery asks, and Brienne, mortified, can only shake her head.

With a pleased purr, Margaery lowers her head, brushing the tip of her nose over Brienne and making her shiver.

“What a fun summer this is going to be,” she murmurs, and Brienne has to clap her hands over her mouth to stifle her sudden giggles. 


	4. Modern Royalty AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So with this one, I went a little different and decided, hey, a 1930s-ish AU is still technically MODERN, right? Basically Jon/Dany, still Westeros but with a 1930s Europe bent (Mereen obviously being a Kinda Bullshit Country ala Monaco) (no offense, Monaco, but you know you are), and borrowing some Abdication Crisis Plot from the Windsors. WHEW. OKAY. We're set.

“He looks like a cat someone put in a tuxedo,” Irri murmurs, and Dany hides her smile behind her champagne glass.

“That’s unkind,” she gently chastises her maid. And then she looks across the dining room again, her eyes trained on Westeros’s new king. “If accurate.”

It’s true that the evening wear, well-tailored and expensive as it clearly is, seems to sit uneasily on Jon.

No doubt his crown sits just as uncomfortably.

She plucks a cigarette from the golden case lying at her elbow, the three-headed dragon of her family’s house picked out in jet and ruby on its surface. She’s not used to Jon as a king yet, and in fact earlier this evening, when she’d heard whispers that the King of Westeros was onboard the ship, her heart had thumped painfully against her ribs, Aegon’s face flashing into her mind.

But no, her erstwhile fiance was no longer king, having abdicated and ceded the position to his half-brother. In all the years she and Aegon had been engaged, Daenerys has never really gotten to know Jon, and as she watches him cross the room to his table now, shoulders stiff, eyes moving over the crowd, she wonders if he’s really as dull as Aegon had always said.

Jon looks over, and briefly, their gazes meet.

Blowing out a long stream of smoke, Dany gives the briefest of nods in his direction, and is gratified to see a dull flush rise up from the starched collar of Jon’s dress shirt. Whether that blush is from his mortification at his family’s treatment of her, or from her newly-acquired scandalous reputation, Dany doesn’t much care.

“He doesn’t look like his brother,” Irri murmurs softly, and Daenerys shrugs, the silk of her evening gown rustling.

“Different mothers,” she replies. “Different upbringings, too. Jon was sent to live with his mother’s people up North and apparently inherited their austerity. That suit probably cost a fortune, but Christ, is it boring.”

At her side, Irri gives a delicate snort. “Aegon wasn’t boring,” she says pointedly. “Perhaps boring would make a nice change.”

Dany throws her an irritated glance. “Not you, too.”

When Aegon had thrown her over, Dany had never been able to decide which was the less humiliating: let people think the man she loved had cruelly jilted her for another woman and a commoner at that, or the truth, that she and Aegon had never been a love match at all, and that all those adoring glances and shared smiles and clasped hands were for the papers and newsreels.

In the end, she’d retreated back to Mereen and let people think what they wanted, throwing herself into a series of affairs with a series of men, each one less suitable than the last, and very firmly ignoring any suggestions that she should get to know Aegon’s replacement a little bit better.

She had wanted to be queen, yes, but a woman had her pride, and she was hardly going to move from one brother to the other, to smile for more cameras and pretend Aegon’s rejection hadn’t been yet another in a long string of embarrassments and failures for her family. No, she was done with Westeros and its kings, happy to let herself be spoiled and feted by people still loyal to her family, happy to sit in the bright sunlight of Mereen or to do things like this, taking a cruise to the Summer Isles to do absolutely nothing of note.

“Why is he here, anyway?” she wonders aloud now, tapping the ash from her cigarette against a crystal dish. “The Summer Isles hardly seem like the place to visit on a diplomatic mission.”

Irri gives a little smile, one cheek dimpling and leans closer. “The papers say his people have not warmed to him as they did Aegon. Say he’s cold and not...easy with people as Aegon was.”

“Bit _too_ easy,” Daenerys mutters to herself and stubs out her cigarette. “So what, he’s on a vacation to make Westeros think he actually likes a bit of fun?”

Irri nods. “I still write with a boy from King’s Landing, and this is what he tells me.”

Grinning, Daenerys elbows the maid who, truly, is more a friend than a servant. “Well, glad to know at least someone benefitted from my time there.”

She’s teasing, but Irri looks at her with serious dark eyes as she says, “He’s a good man, this new king. Everyone at the palace says so. Not as much fun as Aegon, but…,”

Sighing, Dany gestures for the waiter to pour more champagne. Yes, Aegon had been a lot of fun, but in the end, he’d taken from her the only thing she’d ever wanted. Not just to be queen, but a home. A family.

“He didn’t want to be king,” Irri continues. “Or that’s what they say. He was happy up there in his cold with the snow and ice.” She gives a little shudder. “Can’t imagine why.”

When Daenerys only hums in acknowledgement and takes another sip of champagne, Irri leans even closer. “Something you have in common.”

Surprised, Dany’s raises her eyebrows. “What, a love of cold places? You know I can’t abide the cold, Irri.”

The maid actually rolls her eyes at that. “Not that. Aegon changed both of your lives, and not in ways you wanted. And now you are here, on this ship…,” Trailing off, Irri gives her another significant look, and Dany shakes her head with fond exasperation.

“I’m not sure that, ‘our lives were ruined by the same person,’ is a solid basis for romance, darling.”

From across the dining room, there is the pop of a flash, and Dany watches as Jon grimaces, reaching for his glass of wine. A heavyset man at his side leans close to whisper something to him, and the photographer once again gets into place. This time, Jon manages something closer to a smile, but Dany still smirks to think just how horribly uncomfortable that picture will look in the papers. Really, if Jon is trying to convince his people he enjoys a good time as much as Aegon always had, he’s going to need some help.

The thought startles her. Hadn’t she just been telling Irri she wanted nothing to do with the new King of Westeros? But seeing him sitting there, so clearly miserable in his tuxedo, strikes something within Dany. What a lark it would be, letting the world think that poor Princess Daenerys, so callously tossed aside, had actually been what made Aegon tolerable. What if she could make people love Jon as they had loved Aegon?

Everyone around her had urged her to try her hand at Jon for what it could do for her, and everything in Dany had balked at finding herself in another relationship built on alliances and untruths. But this...this would be something very different altogether. Something of her choosing. She can practically see the headlines now, huge block letters proclaiming Aegon the biggest fool in history for letting go of such a woman, a princess who could make even the dour king of Westeros grin like a besotted schoolboy.

Dany rises to her feet, and picks up her cigarette case even as Irri looks up at her with wide eyes. Irri may want her princess to once again aim to be queen, but crossing the room to Jon uninvited will be quite the breach of etiquette, and Dany can already see heads turning her way.

“What are you doing?” Irri whispers, and Dany grins down at her.

“Having fun, darling.”


End file.
